To Spite Your Bones, Sam Winchester
by nerdhawaii
Summary: The brothers embark on a dark adventure after Bobby's death; Dean gets a new deal and Sam makes a different choice. Revenge, angst, and loyalty all play a part. Detour during S7 with multiple secondary character appearances, ramifications from S8 part of plot. Updates sporadic until 1/1/2013 (holidays). Nothing's mine but the gravy :)
1. Chapter 1

"_I_ don't know," the taller one said. An impish expression betrayed the irritation lurking beneath his tolerant tone. "It _looks_ like our sort of thing."

"It looks like your standard issue, Weekly-World-News sort of thing. 'Shuttle Crashes in the Middle of Frickin' Nowhere.' Who cares? We have bigger fish to fry. If the girl who's missing suddenly shows up dripping black goop out of a big fat row of shark teeth where her face should be, _that's _our thing."

"Sure," the taller one snapped, slapping his laptop closed. The hotel room echoed with the clipped syllable, his voice drained of patience, and when he stood the shadow he cast across the dirty floor was eerily long. He kicked a beer can out of the way with a look of disgust, and began to pace in the slender aisle that barely separated his tidy work space from his brother's current bed. "Because it's _that _easy to spot them, all the time. And when we spot them, they're _that _easy to kill."

"We've got a start on how to kill them, princess." The other man wasn't short, even though he wasn't as tall as the first; they were both broad shouldered and carried an air of barely controlled menace, their voices growing in time with their argument. He sat on the rumpled edge, looking out at the curtained window as if the view were worth it. "Do you really want to ditch the progress we've made on the _next _world ending nightmare, just to investigate… Nothing?" A wide hand slapped away the newspaper article his brother had given him five minutes ago; the man sitting on the edge of the bed spoke in a growl and shot a disparaging look at the looming shadow that lay between them on the floor as the tattered print-out landed face up, a brown-eyed girl's xeroxed face silently watching the fight unfold.

The taller one's nostrils flared as his mouth flattened into a firm, angry line. His chest fluttered as he took in a deep breath, stamping in place impatiently, the shadow he cast fluttering between them. Staying in this hotel another night might make him crazy; reading the same books, finding the same nothing just drove both of them towards the despair that lay on the edge of every day. He knew his brother needed something to fight besides _him. _ "We've got no new leads. Nothing. And we're sitting around while you _drink_" -he kicked a rattling six pack container on the floor- "and _eat_" -handfuls of rolled up cheeseburger wrappers were unceremoniously dumped on the shorter one's head- "yourself into an early grave. Perfect, Dean. It's just what Bobby would've wanted, for you to die a fat, lonesome drunk." They stared at each other, furious, until the shorter one exploded from his seat and began pacing around their dingy hotel room, the two shadows dancing angrily in the narrow space too small for either man.

"_Bobby_ would understand why driving into the middle of nowhere over a bunch of nonsense is a bad idea. _Bobby _wouldn't question my diet like a damn school nurse, or whether the end of the world is more important that this goddamn-"

"-Bobby would've called you an idjit and kicked your _ass _if he saw what you've been up to," the taller one snapped. "The world is _always _ending, Dean. Always. In new ways, every year or so, it seems. In the meantime, we hunt. That's what we do. Sitting around and getting fat? _That's _goddamn nonsense."

Dean leaned over and took a long swig from a flask sitting on the small bedside table in their hotel room. His eyes were almost the same effervescent green as his younger sibling's, but otherwise he was fairer in coloring, and darker in demeanor. A long moment passed as he stared at nothing, the dark growing deeper around them, and then he abruptly turned towards his brother. His scarred hand pointed an accusing finger at Sam's broad chest. Dean's younger brother blinked, rocking on his heels, but he was glad it was over. They both knew he'd won. They'd done this dance before. The back and forth was all part of the job. "_Fine_. But if this turns out to be nothing, Sam-"

"_-Fine_," the taller one said, and settled squarely on his feet to face his older brother. They glared at each other. "Then I let you rent anime porn and bore me with recaps of Clint Eastwood movies without complaining." His expression softened. "Even the one with the monkey."

Dean's face broke into a wide smile, and he clapped Sam on the shoulder as he passed. It wasn't sincere, but it would do; Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had showed interest in even a sarcastic pantomime. The door of the dim room opened, flooding the interior with the last bit of bright sunlight. "Hell, Sammy," he said, "that's all just par for the course. You're also stuck hustling dinner." He sauntered into the parking lot, and Sam heard the rumble of their engine turning over as he tossed their last few belongings in a duffel and headed out after Dean.

"Fine," he muttered again, and closed the door.

It would do.


	2. Chapter 2

"Am I supposed to pretend I want to do this? Because, let me tell you Sammy: not gonna happen." Dean stared at the road. It was the second half of the drive; they were headed towards the farthest northwest corner of the United States, and Dean's prior agreement had deteriorated in time with their proximity to the case. "There's no damn space-ship in the woods-"

"—Crop circles," Sam said, trying—and failing—to keep a blank face. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and sighed. He was tired of the argument, and it showed in everything he did.

"Bullshit," Dean barked, and the conversation was over. Two hundred miles left, most of it in silence.

Sam closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Dean day-dreamed as he drove.

He didn't present himself as a man given to flights of fancy. He never thought of himself that way. But when he drove, the music loud and tinged with memory, his mind wandered over the things that were and couldn't be and still, somehow, he wanted. There was nothing more useless than wanting what you could not have, but here he was, alive and kicking, a full grown man, drowning in want. He felt it clinging to him like a row of sticky kisses from a drunk co-ed, like damp clothes pulled from the line too soon. He was heavy with it.

Bobby.

Lisa.

His mom. Sam's innocence. Dad.

To simply be someone else.

That was the kernel of it, of course. He wanted a different life. He wanted to be the kind of man that _wanted_ a different life. All the hunters he'd grown up with were dead or stark raving mad, and what would make a man choose that path? Did he really think he would end up different?

A fool's errand, this thing they were going on. From everything they'd read the Pacific Northwest was practically crawling with vamp camps and in Dad's journal there was a morbid entry about some shifter war with them, a hundred years ago or more. If there was a case up there, it probably _did_ have rows of shark teeth, but no goddamn flying saucers—crop circles. Whatever. Dean cut a glance at his brother and swore under his breath.

But if Sammy needed to do something useful… Dean understood. They had to get out of the hotel sometime, stop leaning on the same three librarians for more books about religious iconography nobody understood, stop chewing each other out over bullshit. It was a hard thing, feeling useless.

Dean was sick of it.

The roads leading in to Seattle were quiet and thick with trees. He could see dawn quicken in the rear-view mirror, and felt a weight in his bones that was more than exhaustion. When the blinking neon in front of him blurred, he knew it was time to stop and rest. They weren't far from the goddamn crop circles, all things considered, and his mind was done.

Sam stirred in the passenger seat. "We there?"

"Nah," Dean said, guiding the big car into an empty parking space. The lot was empty. Pine trees hid the horizon in all directions, and the breeze smelled like rain. "We're about thirty miles east of Seattle. Need to catch some shut-eye."

"I can drive," Sam said, his hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He caught his brother's expression and barked out a short laugh. "Nevermind."

"I'm not missing any sleep for this bullshit," Dean grumbled as he opened the door and slid out. "Place has wi-fi. You can do your nerd-fu and I can sleep. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam said, and Dean slammed the door and walked into the lobby. It smelled like freshly-made coffee, and the clerk behind the corner blearily eyed him as he approached, her hands wrapped around a mug. She looked as tired as he felt. "Room please," he said, and she didn't move. "Two doubles." She blinked and began shuffling some papers around, seeming to realize he wasn't a hallucination brought on by exhaustion.

"Here you go," she said quietly, and he picked up the keys, handed her the card, got it back, all the usual niceties. He wondered if he should drink a cup of coffee, clean the rattlesnakes out of his head.

Nah. Probably just keep him awake, and he needed some silence. _Real_ silence, not the ever-present companion who could not speak, who could only haunt him as he drove, as he ate, as he walked.

Want.

"Thanks," he said, and walked back out to the car. Sam was leaning against the side of the Impala, the black and chrome glimmering in the dim Seattle dawn. Their bags were slung over his shoulders, dwarfed by his size. Dean grabbed his and moved towards the room, leaving the Impala under the shade of the pines. "You gonna want the keys?" He looked at his brother over his shoulder, hoping the peace offering somehow erased his tantrums, his sullen silence. It was funny how much he relied on Sam to forgive him, considering he could never forgive himself.

"Maybe," Sam said, looking back at him. He was cautious. "Probably."

Dean threw him the keys to the Impala and turned to unlock the door of the hotel room. When they got inside he didn't bother taking off his boots. "I'll see you in a couple hours, Sammy," he said, rolling over on the coverlet, and closed his eyes.

The quiet invaded his mind, finally, and he slept dreamlessly.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam watched the television on mute for an hour before he couldn't stand it anymore. He snatched the keys off of the small table by the window with only a moment's hesitation and left the dark room silently, casting a final look at his brother's back as he softly closed the door. He wished he knew whether or not Dean really meant he could take the car. It was so hard to tell lately.

But he had to know. Was it actually her?

He ran through the usual methods of detection and thought about who to call that might know something. Cas could find out, but wouldn't; could a simple Ouija board accomplish it? That's what she would have used.

He pulled the crumpled print-out from his pocket and looked at it again. Dean hadn't spent half a second looking at the girl, Sam was sure, or he would've wondered too. Just a little.

_I mean,_ he thought, _she's _dead. _Or should be._

Bella Talbot's face looked up at him from the wrinkled paper. She was a little older and less well-groomed in this image, clashing with his final memories of her gleaming, expensive attire, her self-assured stances; he wondered if it came from a mug-shot. And of course the last name was different, but that never meant anything. Who reported her missing?

Maybe that was the place to start. Sam sat in the Impala under the pine trees and pulled a cell phone out from the glovebox, his thumb sliding over the ancient piece of tape on the back. It had a phone number and a name carefully penciled on it; he nodded to himself, the decision made.

He wanted to find Bella, if she was alive. If she somehow made it out of hell… He ran a hand over his face and pushed the thought away. He was more than curious, if he let himself remember the storm of feelings he once entertained when she was near, but hope was futile in situations like these. No one besides the Winchesters, as far as he knew, had ever gotten out of hell. It was a deal no one could broker—not even Bella. He recalled her vivacious pursuits, her mysterious and powerful connections and wondered if one of those big-time buyers came through at the last minute… No. Not even for her. There was almost no chance she was alive, but someone out there was looking-_they_ seemed reasonably convinced she was alive. Four years after she was dragged to hell in ragged pieces.

Sam looked at the photo again. Maybe she was just older. A little of the polish wore off _everyone_ in the last four years. If she managed to survive her date with the hellhounds, she still would've had to live through Lucifer's arrival, and the demons that accompanied him topside. Knowing her, she would've found a way; hell, she probably made a profit doing whatever shady deals she could with all the new customers pouring into the marketplace. Sam was sure the Leviathans wouldn't eat her; she was irreplaceable in her own uniquely awful way.

But where would that leave her now? His eyes scanned the image again. Unpolished. Older. And somehow, even though she seemed to treat everyone around her like either an opportunity or garbage—most often both—there was a phone number at the bottom of this page, begging for information on her where-abouts. The language they used didn't sound accusatory. It sounded desperate.

Sam pulled up in front of the sprawling home in Ballard and sat for a moment, watching the foot traffic passing by. Maybe Bella's meat didn't get shredded, he thought; maybe they deputized her into demon duty right there, with the hounds surrounding her in a circle. She would've made a great cross-roads demon. But then, being Bella… Maybe she went rogue, and her devil squad wanted her back. Sam reclined in the seat, prepared to watch.

Three older women walked by, their heads bent over a book the one in the center carried. She flicked past pages as her friends clucked and made her turn back to this or that word or image, pointing at this and that, approving and disapproving. Sam watched them walk up the overgrown path to the house and open the door, the women on either side talking over their friend's head as the rain began to come down.

Bella _did_ have a habit of befriending lonely, elderly women.

Lonely, elderly women with gobs of money and appetites for the occult.

No black eyes. No smoke, no sulphur; perhaps more importantly, he didn't see a trace of shark teeth either. Sam watched the house for hours as the lights turned on and the rain drizzled. He found himself getting tired and wondered if Dean was awake. When he got out of the car and stretched, the air smelled like baking bread; he saw an open window in the bottom floor of the big house, and knew it was the trio from earlier. His stomach rumbled. He swatted his chest to find his cell, unable to remember which pocket he'd placed it in.

Then he noticed them, their red caps and bright wings dulled by the lazy shafts of light cutting through the Seattle cloud-cover. He pretended to start walking towards the coffee shop on the corner and casually leaned over the fence, just a tad, as if he had lost his balance while searching for his phone.

Fairies. Gnomes. Sprites, pixies, goblins—they were all there. The women who lived in the house had packed their yard with every imaginable incarnation of ceramic fairy under the sun, their beady little eyes staring back at Sam from under a batch of lavender, or hiding next to a rose. He stopped walking when he saw the bowls of cream lined up on the back stair. Four of them.

Fairies.

Dean was going to skin him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean woke up in the empty hotel room and lay still, listening to the rain fall down outside as he flushed with consciousness. Totally overrated, he thought. Sleep is better.

But he couldn't go back; he tried, tossing and turning on the coverlet, even kicked his boots off, but nothing worked. Finally he gave up and walked over to the coffee maker, letting it brew him something black and hissing and awful, but caffeinated. He'd take what he could get.

_Hmph,_ he thought, sipping the black goo as he stared through the crack in the curtains. That was his maxim in life, so far. Dean Winchester: he'll take what he can get.

_You need to knock this pity-party shit off,_ he swore to himself as he scanned the parking lot for the Impala. Sam was gone, and he'd taken the big black car with him. So much the better. He didn't want to pursue this dumbshit case, and he needed a shower.

Goddamn crop-circles. He shook his head. _Seriously, Sam?_

Dean walked to his duffel and fished out his soap and shampoo. He found some fresh boxers and socks, but it looked like they needed to hit a laundry mat sometime soon. He grabbed a towel from the stack on the fluorescent lit sink and went into the bathroom. It was painted mustard yellow, and reminded him of about three thousand other hotel rooms.

_Get a grip,_ _dude,_ he told himself. Maybe he needed more coffee. He hit the hot water in the shower and walked back to swig the last bit in his cup before trying to take his clothes off in the small room. Sam probably wouldn't even fit in there.

Dean peeled off his clothes and yanked the curtain back. At least it was clean. He stepped inside, letting the hot water run over him. It felt better than anything else had in the last twenty four hours.

Maybe even longer than that.

He washed his hair, and decided not to shave for another day. He was out of razors, and he wasn't feeling sassy enough to give the machete a try. He'd done that once, years ago; scared the hell out of Sam. Totally worth it. He smiled at the memory, his brother's exasperated, terrified expression burned in his mind. _'Who _does_ that?'_ His little brother blurted out, afraid to grab Dean's arm for fear the machete would take a little skin with it. Dean just smiled.

'_Badasses.' _

Good times.

Dean was feeling better when he got out of the shower. He pulled on his clean boxers, fresh socks. His boots didn't feel so tight with clean clothes underneath. Deodorant. A small slap of aftershave. Because why the hell not, right? Maybe the day clerk was cute; he couldn't even remember what the night clerk looked like, he'd been so tired when they checked in.

His hand froze on the handle of the door. A small shadow flickered through the crack underneath, as if someone were standing on the other side. Waiting.

It wasn't Sam. They always called out to each other when they entered a room, not wanting to startle someone who might be, just as an example, carrying a set of blades.

Because Dean always was. Hell. One time he'd shaved with a machete.

Creepers in their hotel rooms should know better.

Dean swiftly kicked the door so that it knocked into the body on the other side. By the time they were righting themselves, their elbows splayed on the sinktop, he had a knife dragging a jagged line along their carotid. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood. "Who are you-"

The question died in his throat. The reflection of the person he was leaning over blinked back at him in the mirror as his elbow dug into her back, his knife moving away from the exposed skin at the base of her throat. She'd changed. The woman's face was definitely older, but he'd know those eyes anywhere.

Bella Talbot. "Dean," she said, and the fear in her voice was different too. "Please."

He dropped the knife and stepped away.

But he put his other hand on his gun, and didn't have to think twice about it.

"What are you doing here?" A quick scan of the room told him she hadn't even rifled through their duffle bags, although, if he was honest, he probably wouldn't be able to tell. She was a master thief, as she'd always said. "You're dead." His eyes narrowed. "Or at least you should be."

"Oh, please," Bella said, turning to face him and regaining some of her old composure. "Surely you didn't think-"

"-Course I did," Dean barked, backing away from her. The more space the better. "Or did you forget? I was probably the last person you spoke to before you went Alpo." He glared at her. "Let me refresh your memory. You tried to kill me and Sam? Just before the clock struck twelve? Ring a bell?"

"I was desperate," she said, but she had a way of saying earnest things as if they were lies. In fact, everything she ever said sounded like a lie. It probably _was_ her. "I didn't have a lot of options. Why would I trade in the Winchesters, my very _favorite_ set of Ken dolls, if there was anything else I could do?"

"Very convincing," Dean snapped, throwing open the curtain and looking out at the parking lot. There were no cars at all now. How did she get here? "What the hell happened, Bella?"

"Oh come now," she said, her usual sass returning. "Don't you want to reminisce some more? Do you remember when I dressed you up in that tuxedo?" Her smile always made him nervous. "You did make a great Ken, admit it. And Sam captured every geriatric heart that saw him."

"What happened, Bella?" He did it quick; she sputtered when the holy water hit her face, but only in irritation. He already knew she wasn't a shifter. He drew the gun out of his belt and let her hear the barrel click into place as he pointed it at her face. "And try not to lie. As best you can, anyway."

She sighed. "You're not going to like it, Dean," she said.

"Shocker," he grunted. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Fairies."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam desperately tried to recall the last time he sat in a room choked with fairy relics and failed. He _knew_ it had happened—he was absolutely sure of it—but the edges of the memory were worn thin. When he played with it, trying to unfold the parts hidden in the creases, all he got was Dean's furious face, an unhealthy amount of glitter, and a blast of patchouli. Who knows what it all meant.

But Dean _had_ been taken by fairies, that was a fact. Bobby relayed the story with less amusement than Sam thought the topic deserved, but the details didn't seem important to anyone at the time. There was too much going on… There was always too much going on, to enjoy the occasional mockery of his ridiculously butch brother spending a couple hours covered in pixie dust. Dean just announced that he hated fairies—more than witches, in fact—and that was it. Or _supposed_ to be it.

Maybe that _was_ it. Maybe this Bella thing was a dead end.

Sam couldn't recall anything about her and fairies, but then, there was so much he couldn't quite recall. And when it came to Bella, there was always going to be more he didn't know than he did.

"Lovely little creatures, don't you think?" The three women were named Lavinia, Daphne, and Marge. Lavinia was the baker, Daphne carried the books around, and Marge, as far as Sam could tell, was the reigning expert on all things Fae. "The little people are the ones to look out for, but the rest… Well," she sighed, and her tone distinctly reminded Sam of a particular glittered covered corner in his memory, "they just want to have fun, don't they?"

"And there's no harm in fun," called Daphne from the kitchen. She brought Sam a slice of Lavinia's sweetbread and a small dish of butter. She gave Sam a lecherous smile as he scooped a dollop of butter onto the bread and took a bite; he tried not to wince. "Is there. Mr. Roth." They weren't questions, just punctuation for her insinuation. Sam found himself at a loss for words, and concentrated on not choking so as to prevent an excuse for over-enthusiastic mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"Now, now, Daphne," sang Lavinia as she came into the room. "Don't scare him." She sank onto the arm of Sam's chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders before he could even think about moving. "Let him enjoy his snack. I made it just for him." Daphne gave her a narrow look and settled on the settee across from them; Sam couldn't find a way to judiciously extract himself from Lavinia's grasp, but then, she wasn't doing anything. Yet. _What is it with Bella and grabby old ladies,_ he thought, stuffing more bread in his mouth.

"But back to the Fae—you said your brother spent time among them?" All three women turned their faces towards Sam with renewed interest in the subject at hand. Marge plucked a piece of sweetbread off her own plate and chewed it with a thoughtful look on her face. "How interesting. You must be the younger brother?" Sam nodded. "And you say he came back?" They were staring at him. He nodded again. "Alive?"

He coughed. "Yes. Definitely alive."

"Hmm," Marge said. The women all chewed their bread, staring at Sam. "You're sure?"

"What?" Sam swallowed the last bit of bread and put his plate down. The conversation was getting a little strange to continue the pretense of enjoying it. "What are you talking about?"

"Well," Marge said, placing her dish next to his. "When my son came back, he wasn't the same." She gave Sam a sad smile. "He wasn't my son. Looked like him, talked like him. Wasn't him."

"How do you know?" Sam wished he'd brought more than his gun. He wished he'd brought Dean. The conversation was tinged with an ominous undertone he knew meant nothing good; something about the way the three women were watching him made him distinctly uncomfortable.

As if he were prey.

"At first it was little things," Marge said, settling back in her chair. Sam felt Lavinia's arm tighten on his shoulders. "Then big things."

"That's not very specific," Sam said. The cheerful décor in the room somehow made everything a bit creepier. He half expected the sexual innuendo to continue, but that wasn't what was wrong. It was something else. Something more… Insidious.

He tried to stand, but just burped instead.

"When I found him eating my husband on the kitchen floor, soaked in his blood and grinning like a maniac, I knew it wasn't him." Marge's voice was low and pained. "My boy would _never_ do such a thing."

"No offense ma'am, but I've seen people do a lot of terrible things. And all of them had mothers." His vision was a little blurry. He rubbed his eyes and tried to lean forward onto his knees, but Lavinia gently pulled him back.

"Fair enough," Marge said, unrattled. "But you're talking about people. Whatever they sent back in my boy's skin, it wasn't a person." She watched him from her comfortable position on the settee, Lavinia's alarmingly strong arms around his shoulders. Worse still… Sam felt a little queasy. Just a tad.

Just enough to make him wish again, that he'd brought Dean. Or a couple of machetes, or anything. Anything to fight off… Three little old ladies.

"Lavinia and Daphne lost their boys, Sam," Marge said softly, her eyes locked on his. "But they didn't bother sending monsters back. They just took them."

"Clarence was only a baby," Daphne whispered, dabbing at the corner of her eye with an embroidered hanky.

"Milo was already a father himself," Lavinia said, rubbing a small circle on Sam's back with the palm of her hand as she remembered. "But then, he was still very young, younger than you are now." She paused. "People married much younger then. It was a long time ago."

"When, exactly?" Sam wanted her hand to stop moving, but he'd passed queasy and headed on towards drowsy. His limbs felt heavy and he found he couldn't move. Not an inch. He could barely think. His head rocked back, suddenly, and landed in Lavinia's lap.

"1789, back in Boston," she said, her eyes on his. "You're heavy, Mr. Roth." She gently slid his head over until his weight was sprawled across the cushioned love-seat, his legs akimbo. Sam's eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. It was impossible to concentrate.

"Fairies are fascinating little monsters, Mr. Roth," Marge said, leaning towards him. "And what I want to know—what _we_ want to know, and very soon—is how your brother got back?"

Daphne's face was inches from his. Sam's eyes rolled in his head as he fought for consciousness, and although he tried to turn away from her he couldn't. Her breath tickled his cheek. "What makes _him_ so special?"

Lavinia kicked his boot out of her way and stood up, frowning down at his long, helpless body. "And is he going to be very long?" She looked at her watch. "Because Columbo's on in an hour."

"Witches," was all Sam could mumble, all he could think, before everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

"God_dammit!"_ He kicked the bedpost so hard it cracked. "I _hate_ them! They're as bad as witches, with their probing-Odin-glitter-bomb-bullshit-"

"-Well, they hate you too, for whatever that's worth." She'd flinched when he kicked the bed, and he kept the safety off when he turned towards her again. Bella Talbot did not flinch. She was strategic, sociopathic, eerily sociable… All traits that made her a great thief, and a master manipulator. To be Bella Talbot took a lot of damn guts, whatever else one could say about her.

So maybe this wasn't Bella Talbot.

"Why are you working for them?"

"I beg your pardon?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I am still the world's finest purveyor of magical objects." She flashed him a fetching smile. "Just because you boys have been busy doesn't mean I haven't."

He cocked his gun again. She sighed. "Bullshit."

"Seriously Dean," she said, "can we speak like civilized beings? Really." Her eyelids fluttered, although the rest of her was the perfect image of a bored, confident young woman. A real estate agent, maybe, or a banker. "Such a way to treat old friends."

"Friends, huh?" Dean put his sights on her. Maybe he should wing her shoulder; Sam might like that. Although his brother was always a bit oddly sentimental when it came to Bella. "Sleep-overs, hair-braiding, pillow fights? You and my brother might have watched My Little Pony together, lady, but all I remember when I look at you is bad mojo."

"My Little Pony?" Bella stood up and turned towards him, putting both hands in the air as a sign of surrender. He wasn't buying it. "I'm sure if I had a sleep-over with one of the mighty Winchester brothers, I wouldn't have spent it-"

"—Cut the crap, Bella!" Dean lost his temper; he was scared, to be honest, for lots of reasons. Bella was supposed to be dead, and so was he. So was Sam. That was the kind of world he lived in now, one where people lost their souls and got them back and went to hell and then showed up again. What was real? How could you tell?

So he did something that always made him feel better: he fired his gun.

The mirror over the sink exploded into a thousand tiny fragments, the mustard paint refracting in all directions as the gunshot reverberated through the tiny space. Bella Talbot, or whoever she was, screamed like a sixth grader and jumped onto the hotel bed, bouncing in place and shrieking.

It kind of shut him down. "Bella, please—Bella, come on—_Come_ on! Get down! Shut up! For the love of-"

She started hyperventilating. Her hands flapped in front of her face as she bopped up and down. "Fa-fa-fa-fa-"

"—Come on!" Dean put down the gun and reached up to grab her hands. "I don't know what kind of crazy you put in your coco puffs these days lady but-"

There she was. The Bella he knew smiled back at him as his hands linked around her slender wrists. She was a little bit older, sure, and maybe she did flinch now, but she was just as much an actress as always. A quick flash of silver and he found himself handcuffed and straddled on the hotel bed, his face twisted in fury. "There, there, Dean," she said, "don't _you_ go getting all hysterical on me."

"Bella, I swear to god, the first thing I'm going to do when I get these handcuffs off-"

She leaned close to his ear, her whisper creeping along his jawline. "You know, there are days when I wish you had. You always swore you would, but when it came down to it…" Her voice trailed away as she leaned back to look at him. "You never do." Something was wrong.

He could see it now; it wasn't just that she was a little bit older. It wasn't the threads of grey that peeked through her long brunette hair, or the smattering of wrinkles around her mouth. It was something else. Something inside of Bella was… Withered. As if it'd been ripped out and hung up in the wind. "What are you talking about, Bella?"

"The first thing I want you to do when you get these handcuffs off," Bella said, leaning forward again so that their cheeks were touching, "is kill me."

She leapt off of his lap just as the door to the room burst inward. Dean blinked in the sunlight, the white Seattle sky behind the intruders making it hard to see. When a short man stepped forward and brought his face close to Dean's, it took him a moment to recognize him. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Always the wit," the leprechaun said, and did a neat little bow. His dark eyes twinkled malevolently. "We'll enjoy that in Court." He turned to Bella and waved his hand; Dean watched as gilded shackles appeared in the air and slid around her throat and ankles. "Excellent work, Bella. Perhaps it's time you returned home?" Her eyes were like saucers. "Don't worry, pet," the small dark eyed man said, but his attention was returning to Dean. "Being the world's greatest purveyor of magical artifacts isn't all bad."

"You said you would let me go!" She shook with rage; Dean almost enjoyed her frustration, but it was a little difficult with a pair of gilded shackles encircling his own wrists and ankles. He felt it wind around his throat and vowed that this time, _this_ time, he _would_ kill her.

"I say a lot of things, pet," the leprechaun said, and with a wave of his hand, she was gone. "Now where were we," he muttered, looking at Dean.


	7. Chapter 7

"He's a handsome boy," a rough voice said, low and rasping. Sam wished he wasn't dreaming about the witches and huffed. "It'd be a shame to kill him, loves."

"Then don't," the next voice said, just as close as the first. He felt as if he were suffocating, as if a dark, hot wall was pressing down on his face. "Whip up a love potion, Lavinia, if you're so infatuated."

"You were always short-sighted, Daphne," the first voice came again. "If you had _any_ imagination at all you'd know all I'd need was a damn good glamour. Bet he would've loved my Rita Hayworth phase."

"Pull your claws in, girls," a third voice said. Sam had the sinking feeling he wasn't asleep; it wasn't a dream. There were three witches leaning over him, staring down at his face like he was a specimen in a petri dish. "He's awake."

"Mr. Roth," Lavinia said, "don't worry. Nobody's going to make you fall in love, honey." Her whisper was too close. He reluctantly opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn't. They were looming in front of him, all three ladies, and when they stepped back he realized everyone in the room, including him-except, of course, for the chains—was stark naked.

"It's not like television, Mr. Roth," Marge said, raising an eyebrow at his expression. "Witchcraft at our pay-grade is not a PG-13 affair."

"What exactly _is_ your pay-grade?" He didn't really care about the nudity as much as the chains. And the proximity. Lavinia in particular was a tad too close for his comfort, her breath tickling his cheek and one ancient boob resting on his shoulder. He couldn't even squirm, they had him wrapped up so tight.

"To be honest, most of our best nights would be banned by the MPAA." Marge settled back in her settee again, and the other two women went to work lighting candles everywhere and arranging daggers and what had to be a baby skull and Sam closed his eyes after that and wished, for the millionth time, he'd brought Dean. "I get bored watching most movies. But I did like Caligula."

"I liked the Notebook," volunteered Daphne. She set down a book the size of an encyclopedia on Marge's lap and gave Sam a brief look of concern. "Mr. Roth, do you need some more bread? We've got quite a ritual to take care of tonight-"

"—Oh yeah," Lavinia snorted. _"I'm_ the dysfunctional one." She stood up, giving Sam a bit more breathing room, and pointed an accusing finger at Daphne. "You just don't remember what it was like, in the beginning—you're _soft._ A roll in the hay with a man the size of a moose, or a goddamn cupcake, and you pick the cupcake every time!"

"Settle down, girls," Marge said, rolling her eyes. She stopped leafing through her epic grimoire and gave them both a scathing look. "We wouldn't want Mr. Roth to think we're unprofessional."

"This is about what I expect from witches," he muttered, trying to think of something that might save him. He closed his eyes, and chose something desperate. This was a desperate situation. "Cas? Please? No fooling, man, I am in a bad way—and I know you're busy, and I know you don't always like me, and-"

"—Oh my god, you just made me feel so much better about _us,"_ Marge said, adding another eye roll to the bunch she'd previously directed at her coven. _"That_ is what _I_ expect from idiots."

"So what's your genius plan, then?" Sam stared back at them defiantly. "You think tying me up and taking my clothes off is going to make my brother _want_ to help you?"

"We don't want him to _help,_ princess," Marge snapped. "We want to _trade_ him. Bella promised to find us the leprechaun that kidnapped our boys; looks like you just fell into our lap. It's a better deal, really."

"It's not only one fairy that's responsible," Sam said, shaking his head. "That's not how they work. And-"

"—We already killed the idiot husbands that got our babies killed, Mr. Roth," Daphne said in the hushed voice one might use with a very young child. "So he's what's left."

"I hear Odin is a fickle ponce on his best days," Marge said, watching Sam. "And you're a comely enough character. Good breeding stock. If your brother looks anything like you, maybe he'll be happy to give us one leprechaun in exchange. Particularly since your brother, of course, is already marked."

"Bella gave you what you deserve," Sam spat. "I hope she took you for everything you're worth."

"Roughly three lifetimes worth," Daphne said, frowning.

"But we've invested," Lavinia said, and smiled down at him. "So don't you worry your pretty head about us, honey."

"Wait a minute," Sam said, realizing something. "What, exactly, is this ritual for?"

"We're summoning your brother," Lavinia said, and sighed. "Colombo came and went."

"And then we're summoning Odin," explained Daphne.

"And then we're shutting our mouths," Marge growled, and both women silently went about finishing their ritual preparations. Sam struggled against the bonds holding him, then raised his face to the ceiling once more. It was harder than he imagined, praying to his friend. They'd hit a lot of trouble lately.

Always, actually.

It couldn't matter now. "Please, Cas," he said, ignoring Marge's titter. "Seriously. We can't fight off Odin…"

His prayers continued as the women settled in place around him, and he didn't stop as their own chants began to drown his out.

For the first time, he thought maybe it was better that he hadn't brought Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

"_I say a lot of things, pet," the leprechaun said, and with a wave of his hand, she was gone. "Now where were we," he muttered, looking back at Dean._

"Nice," Dean said, scowling. "I hope she's going somewhere fun. Looks like you've been taking great care of her."

The man gave Dean a wide, vaguely malevolent smile. He had an impish face that would've been cute on a child, with less murderous intent. He sat at the small desk across from where Dean was chained to the bed and continued gazing at him. "You know, we never really got to talk, when we met before. Your oaf of a brother sent me home."

"What a tragedy." Dean fiddled with the handcuffs, his fingers sliding along the smooth groves and folds. There was nothing to latch on to. He sighed and kept trying.

"It was, really." The leprechaun studied him for a moment. "You're marked, now, you know; you can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"No new tattoos over here," Dean said, and rolled his eyes. "But I don't see me getting wasted enough for bro-tats with you any day, you scrawny son-of-a-" Dean stopped mid-sentence, staring. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw something move on the table next to the leprechaun. There was nothing there, really, but the coffee pot, his used plastic mug, and the small plastic square that contained the usual hotel accoutrement: individual coffee servings, napkins, sweetener packets, pepper and… Salt. That was it.

The little packet of salt jumped again. Dean was sure of it.

The leprechaun was staring at him.

"Why?" He said, cocking his head. "You don't seem like the tattoo type, but…" The leprechaun narrowed his eyes and glared at him.

"That's not what _marked_ means, you ass. You're going to be a frustrating addition to the Court. But entertaining, I'm sure." He sighed and rubbed his chin, considering. "The pixies are going to love you."

"You positive about that? As I recall," Dean said, still sliding his hands over the slippery metal, "I already had a run in with that sorority, and one of them ended up like a bag of fresh popcorn."

"They're forgiving when it comes to virile young sex-slaves. Once Odin's done with you, they'll clean up what's left and put it out for all the kids to play with. You _are_ virile, aren't you?"

"Probably not in comparison with you, big boy," Dean sneered. He was right. The salt packet was now free of the batch of condiments and making a sinuous, winding path along the table. The leprechaun was oblivious. Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as it meandered closer to the edge, then stopped. "Hey," Dean said, raising an eyebrow. "Remind me again of how Sam stopped you from eating him alive?"

"No," the leprechaun said, standing up. He began to turn just as the salt packet ripped down the center, the tiny crystals flying in every direction. He froze, bristling, as they bounced under the bed, the desk, and across the carpet.

"Didn't have something to do with salt, did it?"

The leprechaun scowled at him. "You _ass."_ The mysterious origins of the salt didn't seem to concern him; he must be used to magic, and he apparently wasn't worried about Dean getting away. He immediately sat down on the floor and began scooping the salt towards himself, counting each tiny grain out loud. "One… Two…" He paused only long enough to frown up at Dean again. "Three…"

Dean knew it was just buying him time. He couldn't remember the incantation that Sam used; he wasn't present, and they'd been through some stuff since then. He struggled against his bonds, wishing that whatever had ripped open that salt pack would manage to pick his locks, but that didn't seem likely at the moment.

He wished he'd gone with Sam.

There was no telling when his brother would be back. He could be in Seattle, or he could've gotten eaten by a vamp nest, or he could be on his way to the hotel right now. Dean needed a plan, immediately. "Cas," he said, completely at a loss, "I know you're busy, man. But I am in deep-"

"—Oh, you've got to be kidding me," the leprechaun said, looking up at him. "You're _praying?"_

"Cas, I mean it," Dean begged. He looked around at the ceiling, the walls, the door. "I really, really need your help."

"_And_ to the wrong gods." The leprechaun shook his head as he shoved the chair out of the way to reach a few more wayward grains of salt. "Good luck, kid. You're in for a rough adjustment."

"Cas! _Cas_—seriously, this is-"

The sharp loss of his voice made the leprechaun turn around. He put his hands flat on the carpet for a second before standing up, making sure they were full of salt; as he stared at the empty bed, he kept counting the tiny pieces, one by one, in his head. Dean was gone. The door was closed, the room the same, except for one crucial change: Dean Winchester was no longer here.

"Well I'll be damned," the leprechaun said, shaking his head as he got back on his knees. He still had a ways to go.


	9. Chapter 9

"Holy shit!" Dean wasn't sure what disturbed him more: the naked quartet he stumbled on-literally, as he landed sprawled out on Sam before leaping to his feet-or the ride there. Out of nowhere, he found his shackled body sucked into some kind of vacuum, his atoms feeling rearranged and his head spinning. And then there he was, no longer watching a disembodied salt packet save his life. The room was lit by candles, which only made the atmosphere more surreal. Was this some kind of inter-generational orgy? The women were strangers to him, but he knew his brother. "Sam!" Dean gave him a look that he hoped conveyed every bit of his feelings about the situation. Whatever the hell it might be. "Seriously?"

_"No,"_ Sam spat, livid. "Come on, Dean-"

"-Settle down, big brother," one of the women said, and before Dean's very eyes, her body morphed into... Rita Hayworth. "There's nothing to worry about here."

_"Damnit _Sam," Dean yelled, spinning towards his brother. He wished fervently he weren't wearing shackles, so he could strangle him. "Can you ever, _ever _date anyone that isn't a fricking mon-"

"-Witches! _Witches, _Dean!" Sam's furious expression finally sank in, and Dean whirled back to the movie star. The witch closest to her stood with her arms firmly crossed, clearly scandalized, but the third, now seated on a love seat, merely rolled her eyes. Before Dean could move, she snapped her fingers and his shackles magically attached themselves to the floor, trapping him once again. He heard his brother huff and tried to turn towards him with some choice words, but his neck snapped back into place; the silver tightened if he struggled. The lounging witch watched him struggle with cold eyes.

"This is it, Sammy," Dean hissed. His eyes watered with the effort. "We are breaking the fuck up."

"Shut up, Dean," his brother said, exasperated. "Did you hear anything from Cas?"

"Both of you shut up," the witch on the love seat said, rolling her eyes for the second time. She waved her hand, and Rita Hayworth vanished, a slyly grinning older lady taking her place.

"Getting better every second," Dean growled, his voice barely able to escape, and the witch on the loveseat narrowed her eyes. With a third wave of her hand, his clothes vanished.

"Oh, come _on," _Sam said. This was not going well. Dean swore vehemently and did an awkward little jig as he tried desperately to wiggle out of his chains again, presumably to hide. They groaned simultaneously as the witches began to move into a circle and chant. "They're calling Odin," Sam told his brother as they studiously avoided looking at one another. "To trade you for a leprechaun."

"I was just with that guy," Dean said, and they locked eyes breifly before he turned back to the witches. "I was just with that guy! Hey!"

"So what, we're just going to snatch him, then get hunted ourselves?" The boss witch gave him a sour expression, as if she doubted his ability to do simple arithematic. "Sounds like a great plan."

"You snatched _me," _he felt the need to point out, but her look only turned to one of pity.

"Of course we did, smartie," she said. "You have no power."

Dean growled until he coughed, the silver biting into his neck. Without speaking to each other, he and Sam began to pray at the same time.

"Cas, listen, I'm sorry man, I know you're playing Angel War Games or whatever-"

"Cas, I would never bother you if I didn't absolutely need your help, we're in serious trouble here-"

The pair of them continued speaking, their words layered over each other, tangling with the murmured incantation of the witches. The room grew thick with magic. As the voices grew steadily louder from all sides, the floor beneath them began to shake. Dean swore and prayed harder, seeing Sam do the same.

It took them both a moment to realize when the witches stopped. It took even longer for them to notice the new member of their party.

Unlike everyone else, he was clothed. In a manner of speaking.

Odin was mostly covered in blood. It covered the thick black cloth that was wrapped around his waist, and the bearskin that shielded his shoulders. Long, dreadlocked grey hair fell down his back, and his black eyes shone with irritation. His axe was over his head, but he slowly lowered it as he took in the party around him.

When he spoke, it wasn't in English. Of course.

But before Dean and Sam could entirely despair, Cas answered Odin, in whatever language it was. He didn't look nearly as fierce, what with the trench coat and all, but he did manage to scare the witches.

"What the hell?" The sarcastic witch that had seemed like she was running the show minutes ago looked a little flustered.

"Why have you called me here?" Odin's voice was thick with disgust. He swept across the room until he was face to face with her, his black eyes locked on hers. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course, sir." The witch who spoke now had a southern accent; Dean was pretty sure she was the same one that had turned into Rita Hayworth earlier. "We wanted to speak with you-"

Odin roared. It wasn't a normal yell; it wouldn't be correct to say he screamed. It sounded like raging thunder and a thousand caged tigers and death, all rolled up into one. When it was over, Cas was the only one still standing, and he said something sharp in the language only Odin would understand. It didn't go well.

"We want the leprechaun that stole our children," the witch barked. It took her a moment to raise her body off of the floor, but instead of frightening her more, Odin's rage only seemed to stoke her own. "We brought a first-born and his younger brother to trade-"

"-To trade? With Odin?" Dean instantly felt a bit less intimidated. People that referred to themselves in the third person never impressed. Sam just looked at Cas. What was he waiting for?

Right, Cas seemed to say. With a smooth rustling of wings, he was next to them. The silver linked around Dean's throat vanished; Sam was untied.

But then, there was Odin.

He was right in front of Dean. He smelled like the blood he was covered in; his coal black eyes burned into Dean's and his heavy hand clapped on his shoulder. When he leaned forward and grinned in his face, Dean saw that Odin's teeth were black. He said one word. "Mine."

And then they were gone.

"Cas, we have to-" But before he could finish his thought, Cas's cool fingers were on his own shoulder, and the room was disappearing. Just as Dean had.


End file.
